Too Many Friends
by Icarus
Summary: In Gondor, Frodo escapes the celebrations of the destruction of the ring, and finds an unexpected interlude of peace.
1. Default Chapter

*** Too Many Friends ***  
  
Sam urged him to leave Frodo be, but Merry was bored and of no mind to listen in any case. So he asked the kitchen staff, then the library, and then combed half the palace in Minas Tirith, until his search lead him, at last, to where he stood on this long, spiraling stair.  
  
The stone was cool under his feet, pleasant after the humid Gondor summer, and each turning was broken by deep blue slits in the walls, open to the sky. Peering over a ledge, he spied a rolling lush green in every shade, trees mere scattered dots beneath. A land like this recovered quickly from war. Gulls whirled and cried lazily about the rooftops below him, stirred by the fresh breeze that blew in from the south. It made the tower a fair wind tunnel, causing Merry to pause and blink as it ruffled his hair. The torches, in ornate brackets, were unlit, though it was hard to say if they had started the morning that way, or if this wind had snuffed them, one by one.  
  
At the top stair his long climb was rewarded by the sight of bandaged feet on a small figure, tipped back on an uncomfortable looking stool. An over- sized book rested in his lap. Frodo looked up in surprise.  
  
"Oh, hello, Merry. Am I expected somewhere? I've quite lost track of time." He shut his book and made a motion to rise.  
  
"No." Merry teased him, "But you led me on a lively chase. Is this where you've been hiding?"  
  
"I am hiding, aren't I?" Frodo laughed. He replaced the book on a shelf. Merry guessed the dusty room to be some sort of library. It wasn't in fact, but Frodo had squirreled away so many books it began to rather look like one.  
  
"Well," Frodo said, "I admit, all this celebrating has been a bit more than I imagined. Or I can stand! Some days I just wish I had some corner or hole of my own to crawl into for some peace. But I hate to spoil anyone's fun." Merry took the hint, and after some polite talk, let Frodo be.  
  
But he also took word to Pippin, who then queried Sam about Frodo's mood, and in the manner of friends, soon everyone knew of Frodo's 'hiding place', and were popping in and out to check on him. It bid fair to drive Frodo mad with distraction.  
  
When the third set of footsteps in one morning rang up the tower stairs, Frodo sighed and began to contemplate how long it would take Merry to find a second hiding place, and if it was worth the attempt to move. But these footsteps were unfamiliar, booted, and certainly no hobbit's, and he watched the stairs with curiosity. A new face, and quite familiar, rounded the tower steps this time.  
  
"Aragorn!" Frodo rose in surprise, but the king forestalled him with a gesture.  
  
"Please, Frodo, sit down. If I cannot keep you from climbing such long flights of stairs, at least I can keep you off your bandages for the moment," he smiled warmly, "crown or no crown, the Herbmaster commands me in such matters."  
  
He wore no ornament of his rank, and was clad in a rich, but simple tunic. He seemed now not so different from the ranger Frodo had met in Bree. Indeed, he had changed very little, save in appearance. Aragorn moved a chair and straddled it. He slowly took in the rather dismal room, which to Frodo looked suddenly quite dreary indeed. He felt oddly defensive. The king spoke softly as to himself. "So, this is how we repay the Ringbearer for all his troubles on our behalf.  
  
"Well," he looked up at Frodo with a wry face, "I understand you tire of celebration. No-" he interrupted Frodo's startled sound, "don't deny it. I've spoken with the all-knowing Sam, who greatly fears he will be in trouble for 'spilling the beans.' But he dare not disobey a command from his King. I've spoken with a good many others as well. You have too many friends to keep secrets for long."  
  
"Dear Sam," Frodo shook his head, "I hope he's not too worried."  
  
"He is. But so is everyone else." The king's eyes were bright with concern. He leaned his chin on his fist as he waited, skillfully drawing out the pause, patient for Frodo's answer. He wanted the truth, not hobbit lightness. The room was silent a long moment, pages on an open book fluttered as the breeze shifted. Frodo simply stared at the floor. At last, he drew a breath.  
  
"I'm not tired of the celebrations. The people here, Minas Tirith, Gondor, they deserve to celebrate. They have suffered longer and more than any of us in the Shire from the darkness.." He gestured east, to the fallen stronghold of Mordor. "I won't, I cannot, take that away from them.  
  
"It's just.. I don't have the heart for it. Not now, at least not yet. I did at first, but," he glanced at the floor and again out the window to the east, "too much has been lost. Merry and Pippin don't understand. I'm not even sure Sam does. But that is probably for the best that they don't."  
  
"No. They do not. But I do." Aragon said gently. In that moment the long years of toil that had earned him his throne were revealed in his face. His eyes looked tired beyond measure. And Frodo saw he spoke the truth. Then the moment passed, and a spark of humor returned, erasing even the memory of that vision.  
  
"But while you seem to prefer this place," he gestured to the dusty chamber, his eyes glinting with amusement, "to celebration, I am in no mood to grant it. You have not caught me unprepared."  
  
*** Thus it came to pass that a pony trap carrying Frodo and Sam, attended by Merry and Pippin for the journey, trundled up the main road from Minas Tirith to Lossarnath, turning aside down a narrow cart track. It was a half- day's journey to the village of Parath Nuil, at the outskirts of which lay the small cottage Aragorn had given them. Merry and Pippin had promised to help them settle in.  
  
The Herbmaster had been in no way pleased Frodo and Sam were out of his care before their feet were properly healed, and promised them certain dire consequences. But once Frodo had somewhere to 'run', as Pippin put it, his mind was quite made up to leave at once: he promised he would see to it he and Sam applied their medicine without fail. Unappeased, the Herbmaster gave in to the inevitable. Tending unconscious hobbits, or hobbits in ordinary pain was one thing. Tending their sensitive feet, which wriggled out of his grasp at the least touch was quite another. He had given up and handed them the salve, though he was oblivious to Frodo and Sam's embarrassment when he suggested they apply it for each other.  
  
They arrived near nightfall, nearly passing the cottage in the dark; they stumbled up an unfamiliar walk. Light flickered as Merry kindled a fire in the kitchen fireplace.  
  
So Sam and Frodo spent the first night in their new home with a pleasant late dinner, laughing and talking until far too late into the night. 


	2. Innocent Brandy & Fireflies

*** Innocent Brandy and Fireflies ***  
  
At Merry and Pippin's departure, the world simplified, to just day and night, morning and evening, Frodo and Sam. Rain fell, or it didn't, in a changeless pattern. Their wills, which were hardened to push past endurance and then later, to smile and nod at strangers in unfamiliar surroundings, finally began to relax. They no longer slept from exhaustion, but settled into a restful pattern of life far from the reminders of the city. In their private corner of the world, time ran on effortlessly, uninterrupted.  
  
For some weeks they barely saw each other outside of mealtimes, rarely speaking even then. They were bathed in a silence they sorely needed. Sam spent his days outside 'setting the garden to rights.' Frodo remained indoors for the most part; he'd the worse injuries and had taxed them too much in Minas Tirith, in his eagerness to be about. He delighted to find that the bedroom, in addition to their two beds, had its own fireplace, and a glazed door to the garden. There he wrote several letters to Bilbo, all unfinished, which was rather foolish, as it was likely they'd have to deliver them themselves.  
  
In the morning light, Sam noted the little house looked a bit shabby, though the inside was in good repair. It faced southeast, and was fenced with a high overgrown hedge. The lane, really two wheel tracks, ran south just beyond the hedge. They were not far from the village market, and farm children passed almost daily up and down the road, their light high voices laughing and singing. The garden was many seasons overgrown, and Sam was pleased to find a vegetable garden in the back had reseeded and run riot with tomato vines and various herbs, some of which he didn't recognize. Daring the Doctor's wrath, not to mention further injury, Sam raised a trellis that cupped the small front porch, and was already training an unfamiliar flowering vine to climb it. "I only hope it doesn't turn out to be a weed of some kind," he mused. But it seemed to be doing well and behaving like a proper flower.  
  
Frodo for his part, after 'supervising' the trellis, teased Sam about "poisoning us with that garden of yours," and wrote to Merry for some books on local herbs.  
  
Slowly, as something undefinable in their friendship healed, they spoke more, almost shyly, of little things, mostly about the humid weather in Gondor, the cool mountain nights, and would you pass the toast? They found they in fact had too much to say to each other, and even Frodo found no words.  
  
Instead Sam began to absurdly dote on Frodo, until in frustration Frodo complained he was no helpless grandmother. For his part, Frodo tried to do for Sam many of the things Sam had always done for his master, insisting on making tea, or dinner, or doing the washing. He was of no help at all, and soon they were awkwardly tripping over one another.  
  
"Now Mr. Frodo, I'll be out of a job if you keep on like this," complained Sam one morning, while a rueful Frodo turned burnt bacon to see if any could be salvaged.  
  
"That seems unlikely at this rate," he observed with a laugh, and yielded both the tongs and the kitchen back to their rightful owner. It was all quite awkward and they both gave it up as a bad idea.  
  
So they did what any hobbits would do in their circumstances: filled up their pipes and spoke of small things of no consequence until late into the night, drinking in each other's company. They did continue the habit Sam had begun of helping each other with the salve, feeling slightly naughty, but finding it too practical to abandon. Also, Frodo was impatient for his feet to heal so he could explore the surrounding area.  
  
Of evenings, Sam warmed a pot of water and set the jar of salve in it, chatting while Frodo lit the bedroom fire, more for the light than warmth. The light played on the walls and ceiling as Frodo sat on top of a deep green coverlet, his feet propped on Sam's lap, a glass of brandy in hand. Sam watched as the fireflies danced like stars at the windows. He never tired of them, as they had none in the Shire, save in deepest Southfarthing where he'd never been.  
  
It was difficult not to touch the more sensitive parts of Frodo's feet, challenging even for Sam, and the fresh skin from the burns made it worse, but Frodo took a snifter of brandy to take the edge off his nerves, and to avoid kicking Sam in the face. He lay back against the pillows, eyes half- lidded, with a contented, beamy, slightly flushed expression, whether from the brandy or the attentions it was hard to tell. Sam couldn't resist comment.  
  
"You look like a cat being stroked." Frodo merely smiled softly and stretched.  
  
"Well, it's almost your turn, Master Cat. And don't let me fall asleep this time!" Truth to tell, Sam noticed the brandy put Frodo right out, given half a chance. It was one reason they'd moved these sessions from the living room to their bedroom, though comfort was their main thought. Many was the time he watched Frodo sleep and his heart would catch in his throat; or he would sit admiring, he looked so like some elvish creation, too fragile and pure for this world. Tonight though, brandy or no, Frodo's eyes remained alert, lively with restless intelligence and mischief.  
  
At Sam's turn, Sam comfortably sagged into the cushions, both hands cupping a mug. The headboard was a pleasant oak, and Sam was careful not to knock his head against it. He always felt odd having Frodo serve him like this, it went against the grain somehow, it was not proper, but he knew better than to argue with Frodo about it. The fire had burned considerably lower, bathing the room and Frodo in a soft glow. The clock on the mantel counted time, but Sam blissfully ignored it.  
  
Frodo's touch was gentle if somewhat less skilled than Sam's. Sam usually found himself to be thoroughly relaxed by this time, and in any case, he detested the sweetish taste of brandy, though any excuse would do for a mug of ale. It was thicker hereabouts than he liked, and not a patch on the Golden Perch as he had told Frodo many times, but it would do, and very nicely, too.  
  
The fire flickered low as they sipped and talked, Frodo listening to every word of Sam's meandering talk about the garden and his day. He never tired of stories of Sam's family he'd heard a thousand times. Frodo hadn't really had a family as boy. It was unusual for Frodo to tell tales of his childhood in Brandy Hall as he did this evening, gazing up at the ceiling, particularly as the conversation turned to a saucy one.  
  
You're in trouble tonight, Sam Gamgee, Sam thought aimlessly, sipping his ale and blushing from more than just the beer.  
  
But he rose to the occasion with a naughty story of his own, regarding a certain Pansy Marish, and he related the gossip in the rich detail that only one who had been present could tell. He was absurdly pleased as this left Frodo breathless with laughter and unspoken respect. Frodo had his answer to that amorous adventure though, his better termed a misadventure, with the Tooks, one Pippin would surely cuff him for if he heard! Frodo made him promise never, ever, to tell, and Sam swore on his soul, may lightning strike him down. And so they laughed, all else forgotten, as the night closed in, they found themselves confessing things they never dreamed they would tell anyone, unwilling to sleep even as it pressed their heads into the pillow. Frodo's curls tumbled onto his face, and his eyes were preternaturally bright.  
  
"We oughtn't to stay up much later," Sam offered, but, fortunately Frodo wasn't willing to sleep either and propped himself up, his elbow making a trough in the pillow beside Sam's cheek. A part of Sam, suspended, was aware of how close they were, and whether it was from the subject matter or no, he pulled away slightly to hide an embarrassing tightness in his trousers. Frodo didn't appear to notice, however, and Sam joyfully absorbed his animated face. Frodo was alight, as happy as he'd ever seen him, and it did his heart good to see it.  
  
His eyelids slid shut of their own accord, and it was Frodo's turn to suggest, unwelcome, that they get some sleep. His chin burrowed in the pillow next to Sam's face. He didn't look at all sleepy. Sam lied, no, no sir, I'm not tired.  
  
He took up his end of the conversation to keep his eyes from betraying him again. It was the utterly still hour of night, when all the world slumbered. He was uncomfortably aware of Frodo's breathing next to him, and he kept glancing over to see if he was still awake. But his master was stretched out beside him, gazing up at him contentedly. It seemed an age had passed when Frodo said, in a way Sam somehow understood, "you should leave, Sam," his voice strange, husky and tight.  
  
Sam meant to make light, his wagging finger was intended as a chiding gesture, but the tip touched Frodo's lip - they were that close - and that first touch was electric. It shot fire all through Sam. He wanted to follow that sensation to the end of the rainbow, wherever it led. Frodo's skin, his face, his shoulders, all felt silky under his searching hands; reason melted.  
  
Frodo helped with his stubborn buttons that stood in Sam's way, and Sam heard his own groan of frustration as Frodo fended him off. "No, wait," Frodo whispered. Sam let go a moment, obedient but glowering, vaguely aware of Frodo tugging at his shirt, and then the hot hands and kisses and cool air touched his chest, exquisite and shivery. Sam swiftly got the point, and finished pulling off his own shirt, and slid their two bodies next to each other, smooth and pleasant. He was relieved to find that arcing fire was still there, it hadn't escaped. Sam pressed close, wanting nothing to separate them. Frodo sighed. Kisses rained on his shoulders, neck, then settled on Sam's mouth fiercely, and Sam was aware of lips moving softly on his own, and the warmth of hot breath under his chin as Frodo broke away with a shuddering sigh. Sam started at a sharp nip from his master and returned it with rough kisses of his own.  
  
Frodo nuzzled his chest, and looked up at him with such dark, knowing eyes, Sam's heart skipped a beat. Something in him cooled to a steadier, deeper rhythm. As they fell into a deep kiss, the room spun. It was hard to tell where he began and his master ended.  
  
He found himself, he was not sure how, tumbled on his back. He was gazing up at his master's bare, smooth skin, so delicate in the morning half- light; his thighs pinned Sam's shoulders deep into the downy pillow. Frodo's eyes, half-lidded, sparkled at him, playful, lips kissed as bright as a cherry. They looked fuller than usual, though they had their usual ironic smile. Sam's eyes grew big. His master's need was stretched out, near straight as a poker, across Sam, within easy reach, if Sam hadn't been completely trapped.  
  
Sam felt suddenly shy and blushed at his own frank examination of Frodo's slender length, smaller and more delicate than his own. He looked away. Except, there was really nowhere to look but up, past the dark nipples and silently heaving chest, skin pebbled and chilled in the cool dawn air. He was caught by Frodo's eyes, which clearly read his embarrassment, softened and smiled. Frodo's hand gently touched Sam's cheek, comforting. A fire smoldered in those eyes with an intensity he'd rarely seen.  
  
Sam glanced down again and licked his lips unconsciously. Then, locked to the gaze of those eyes, he raised his head slightly and touched the tip of that length with his tongue. Frodo jolted and gave a slight yelp, gasped a startled whisper: "What are you doing?" His eyes were wide with shock. Sam grinned foolishly. He lifted again with a questioning look -and more warning this time- and at Frodo's hesitant nod and wider blinking eyes, took first the tip, and then enveloped as much as he could with his mouth.  
  
Frodo's entire body turned pliable and responsive to his touch, as he lovingly stroked the shaft with his tongue, trailing around the delicate, sensitive rim. Frodo's eyes slid shut, as something between a sigh and a moan escaped him. Sam's own arousal throbbed as he imagined Frodo doing this to himself soon enough, but he tended his master's needs first, and thoroughly. Sam easily held Frodo and rolled him over, kicking the blankets out of the way, and settled in to do this properly, immersed in a flood of new sensation.  
  
The curve of Frodo's smile was soft. There was an indentation where he had bit his lip to keep, unsuccessfully, from crying out. So much for your dignity, Mr. Frodo. A rosy dawn light filled the room.  
  
Liquid eyes looked up at Sam in a glazed mixture of emotion, wonder and devotion, almost frighteningly intense. Dark sweat-dampened curls stuck to his forehead. Sam stroked Frodo's cheek, observing, "We sure made an awful mess of the bed." Frodo laughed shakily.  
  
After a long moment they moved; their skin, stuck together, reluctantly separated. Sam murmured something about a bath, but Frodo shook his head and said softly, "No, thank you, Sam."  
  
Keenly aware of how sticky he felt, Sam trotted off to the kitchen and returned with dampened tea towels, which Frodo insistently took from his hands and deftly rubbed him down, trundling him in a blanket, while Sam awkwardly tried to do the same. Frodo sank to the pillow, barely remembering to say "Goodnight, Sam," as they always did, on more ordinary nights. Though clearly it was now morning.  
  
It felt strange to Sam to be naked beneath the sheets. Frodo was an arm's reach beside him. By the rise and fall of the stretched linens, he was already fast asleep. Sam's mind reeled with exhaustion and dumbfounded shock, his own bed across the room seemed a mile away. Finally, awake but knowing he had to sleep, he curled up under the blankets; and wisely put off thinking until the morrow. 


	3. Cold Coffee & Crumpets

*** Cold Coffee & Crumpets ***  
  
The next day, Frodo woke with a start, flushed from what could only have been a vivid dream, though he knew very well it was not. Sunlight, high and bright, streamed in through the curtains, a slight breeze played with the gauze idly. It was late in the morning. The clock on the mantle ticked, announcing the time loudly. He glanced about, various pictures and oddments about the room, books scattered on his desk, a fresh towel draped, as usual, by Sam over the chair: all seemed in order. But though the room had been carefully picked up from the night before, the pillow beside him had clearly been slept on; the blankets mussed. Frodo felt a wash of guilty relief Sam that wasn't there now. He leaned on a knee, his head in his hands. On the other side of the wall he could hear Sam in the kitchen, a comfortable clatter of dishes and washing up, all normal, ordinary sounds, for anything but a normal day. Frodo wondered how he was going to get through it. The little cottage seemed inescapably small at the moment.  
  
He put off getting up as long as possible, but finally hunger and the smell of cooking drove him out of bed. Something sizzled in a pan on the other side of the wall. Usually in the mornings, Frodo wandered in early for breakfast, bleary-eyed, famished and half-dressed. Today he dressed carefully, including his waistcoat, and he was putting on cufflinks when he heard a barely perceptible knock at the door. Before he could answer, the knock repeated; muffled beyond the door he heard Sam clear his throat.  
  
"Uh, breakfast is ready. Sir."  
  
"Coming," Frodo said in a falsely clear voice. He straightened the waistcoat, took a breath to steady himself. But opening the door he found Sam had already disappeared into the kitchen. It occurred to him Sam hadn't knocked in years.  
  
The simple living room, only a few seats and bookshelves, seemed undisturbed and pleasant, though like the bed everything was rather too large for hobbits. Gondor had nothing their size. Fresh cut flowers nodded in a vase on the dining table. The shutters were open to catch the morning air before the summer's heat was upon them. Sam had missed nothing of his daily routine. Frodo found he could put it off no longer, and finally stepped into the kitchen.  
  
If he had any question as to what happened last night, the moment he caught Sam's eyes, knowing eyes that immediately fell as Sam ducked his head, answered him beyond a shadow of a doubt. Frodo's heart pounded, and he stood helplessly, his thumb playing unawares at the gap where his ring finger used to be - a recent version of an old nervous habit. He felt a stranger to himself. And Sam. He cursed his own weakness silently. With a cringe, he recalled Merry and Pippin were due to visit today, too. Frodo rubbed his temples and wished there were some way to cancel, at least until things were settled, but he could think of no way out of it.  
  
"Good morning, sir." said Sam, tentatively.  
  
"Master Gamgee." He nodded stiffly as he set down to the table, determined to manage somehow.  
  
"Eggs, Mr. Baggins, sir, for breakfast I mean," Sam stumbled over the words, "Just how you like them." he trailed off in a blush. The intimation of that blush brought unbidden an image from the night before of the same blush, from an entirely different cause; Frodo swallowed. Sam dropped his whisk on the floor. This was precisely what he did not want to think about just now. Frodo put all such thoughts out of his head with a manful effort, glaring down at his plate.  
  
They sat across the table from each other, and if any were to watch, they would have thought them very polite to their plates, the floor, the walls, as they barely glanced at each other. "Would you pass the butter, Master Gamgee?" "Some more bacon, Mr. Baggins?" and "Yes, milk would be fine, thank you." Sam's excellent cookery was wasted on both of them.  
  
Sam excused himself to the washing up as soon as politely possible, and scurried off with rather unseemly haste. Frodo would have laughed, any other day, but his stomach was in knots. He retreated with more dignity, in the opposite direction, picking a book at random and settling in a chair under a cherry tree, sheltered from the road by the hedge. The promise of sweltering heat was relieved by a few sudden gusts, which rifled through the pages. It wasn't long before Frodo realized he had already read this one. A glance through the open door convinced him it was worth reading again: Sam was back in the kitchen. He noted and then watched over the edge of the book as Sam made brisk work of the dishes, bundled off his apron, and then did the skimpiest job of dusting Frodo had ever seen him do. Sam disappeared out of the frame of the door briefly, on tiptoe, as he flicked a dustcloth over the shelves, glancing over his shoulder nervously. Their eyes met accidentally with a shock. Frodo found the book immediately engrossing, though he couldn't quite find his place. So he didn't see Sam stand there a moment, anxiously wringing his hands.  
  
Realizing he'd read the same page over again (uncomprehending), Frodo was finally coming to the decision he must talk to Sam, before this went on much longer. A shadow fell over his book. It was Sam.  
  
"Thought you might like some tea, sir?" he asked hesitantly, tea tray in hand. It was nowhere near teatime. Frodo shaded his eyes, gratefully accepting the excuse.  
  
They sipped in awkward silence. When Frodo poured the last cup and began spooning in sugar, Sam broke the tension at last.  
  
"You know sir, I've been thinking.."  
  
"Yes?" said Frodo, mildly. He felt that came out rather well, calm; as it did, though anyone who knew him would have noticed the spilt sugar and the sudden rapid stirring. He eyed Sam over the cup cautiously, and leaned back in his chair.  
  
"Well - what about Rosie?" Sam spoke his mind in a rush, "She's been waiting for me and all, leastaways I like to think she has. It just wouldn't seem right, if you understand me."  
  
Frodo fairly laughed in his relief, and let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Sam, you're a marvel! My thoughts exactly! Of course it wouldn't be right. For Rosie, I mean."  
  
He took a sip, thoughtfully. The silence stretched on. A cart rattled past on the other side of the hedge, the sound vanishing.  
  
"I'm so relieved." Frodo said again, unnecessarily.  
  
Sam looked uncomfortable, and squirmed. Frodo looked up with a sense of warning, but waited for Sam to come out with it. Finally, Sam couldn't stand it anymore.  
  
"Have I. have I still got my job, then?" he said mournfully. He was utterly miserable. The question took Frodo by complete surprise.  
  
"Why yes! Of course you do!" he said emphatically, "Sam, what would I do without you? I'd be lost. I can't even imagine.." His voice trailed off at just the thought.  
  
Sam heaved an enormous sigh of relief, sagging in his chair. "Oh, that's a weight off and no mistake. I couldn't stand to think.. I mean, you're.. you mean the world to me, Mr. Frodo. I couldn't bear it if I'd.. I'd gone and.." He was shaky with emotion. Frodo met his eyes, leaned forward with his hand on Sam's shoulder.  
  
"Sam. It was all my fault."  
  
"It was?" Sam blinked.  
  
"Yes." Frodo shook his head, "I don't know what came over me. But how well I know that there is nothing you wouldn't do for me, and I should have never asked so much of you. I crossed the line. It shan't happen again," he promised. Sam was still blinking.  
  
"Well now, there's crossing the line and then there's leaving it in the next county, but," he said, "beggin' your pardon Mr. Frodo, it takes two to dance, as my old Dad used to say. If you take my meaning. I don't recall you asking, nor telling, nor ever needin' to."  
  
"It's all rather a blur to me to tell the truth." Frodo admitted in a rather weak voice, surprised. He wasn't sure what to make of this turn of events.  
  
Sam shook his head. "That brandy. It's no good for you. You should drink ale: it's more healthy like." Frodo suppressed a smile at that.  
  
"I'll keep it in mind. But I suspect you just don't like my brandy." He took another thoughtful sip, "and I imagine you're right. It could happen to anyone."  
  
"In Hobbiton??" startled Sam, "Oh no. Not at all. Not if you ask me."  
  
"Well I didn't."  
  
"Don't be testy, now." Sam easily took the cup from Frodo's hand and set it on the tray. "I just don't think it's been done before is all." Frodo wasn't so sure. Sam thought a moment.  
  
"Maybe them Tooks," Sam offered, "They get up to all kinds of wildness out away in Tuckborough, I hear tell."  
  
Frodo chuckled. "Do you know something about our Pip that I don't? How is that, Sam?" he winked. Sam spluttered with denial as Frodo laughed. He'd forgotten Pippin was a Took. Then a sudden wild thought occurred to Frodo.  
  
"Can you imagine what Bilbo would say if he knew, especially if you moved into Bag End with me?"  
  
Sam rolled his eyes in dismay, "My Gaffer would carry on so!"  
  
"Rosie would never understand."  
  
"No indeed!"  
  
"And what would the neighbors think?" added Frodo in amused horror, "Imagine the gossip! The daft Bagginses at it again. It would be a scandal! All of Hobbiton will know."  
  
They paused and looked at each other, realizing at nearly the same moment.  
  
"That lot. They'd never guess, now would they?"  
  
"No, the thought would never occur to them. And right under their very noses, too!"  
  
They bowled over with laughter, laughing both in relief at finding their friendship undamaged, the awful joke played on an unsuspecting Hobbiton, and something else, a vague excitement, nervous and too embarrassing to imagine. Positively cracked, teacups in grave danger, they sounded for all the world like two men deep in their cups.  
  
Sam gasped out, between sobs of laughter, "Oh, you - you are terrible! Ol' Gollum was right." he imitated, "Wicked, wicked, Master!" as he collapsed into fresh giggles.  
  
"Nassssty, nasssty Hobbitses!" mimicked Frodo, with a twinkle. This fairly knocked Sam out of his chair, and with a whoop and 'Whoa!' Frodo rescued the tea tray from certain disaster.  
  
"Oh," Sam sighed at last, wiping tears from his eyes with his arm, "I did some nasty things last night, that I did." He froze suddenly, as if he feared he had said too much, too coarsely. Frodo was a gentlehobbit after all. Frodo was startled, taken aback a bit of course, but his heart kindled as he recalled a few of those "nasty" things vividly; and pleasantly he found. Frodo didn't mind remembering them anymore, certain now they could not take away his dearest friend.  
  
In fact, if Sam didn't mind.. his quick mind was leaping ahead, laying plans. He was surprised at himself, to find such needs and desires, which he had shunted aside most of his life for more pressing matters, alive and well. He began to quite look forward to the evening's new possibilities. It was late; the sun was near setting already. The fireflies were out again. Sam loved the fireflies, Frodo thought.  
  
His reverie was broken by the sound of Pippin's clear voice carrying up the lane. Frodo cursed, startling Sam.  
  
"I completely forgot about them."  
  
"Yes. Now those two, they would be trouble," observed Sam, "no hiding naught from them."  
  
Frodo nodded, thoughtful. "They'd have to be let in on our, ah, little joke, at some point. But mind you, not a word for now, Sam!"  
  
Rising to help with the dishes, on a sudden whim or impulse, Frodo reached for Sam's hand. Sam let him, shyly, kiss him. Sam's expression was open and frank, though his heart pounded, Frodo knew.  
  
"Mr.- " he managed, his wits scattered, "they're almost here!"  
  
"Hey, what's the joke?" Pippin's voice came brightly, he peered with Merry over the gate. Frodo turned. "We heard you two laughing back there."  
  
"You had to be there," Frodo replied evenly, tongue in cheek, smoothly settling into the role of host. Sam rolled his eyes in alarm at his master, and stumbled to escape with the dishes into the house. Sam muttered to himself:  
  
"Don't say nothin', Mr. Frodo? Oh no.. I've no mind for explanations. Especially as I haven't got one!" 


	4. A Dangerous Game

**** A Dangerous Game ****  
  
Cool mountains showed themselves in the distance, purple and fading blue, sculpted in the last of the sun's rays. Even at high summer, Mt. Mindolluin's peak was, as always, pristine and white. Although Minas Tirith lay just on the other side of the peak, it had been a journey of several days for Merry and Pippin, as they had to go the long way around it down nearly to the banks of the Anduin river, then back up through the rolling farms and homesteads of Lossarnach. The Lossarnach flooded every year, which made it a fertile vale known for its vineyards, the air scented with the unique combination of sea tang, cool mountain springs, and lush greenery. The inns were fine and the beer of good quality (in Pippin's expert opinion), but it was a glad sound at journey's end to hear Frodo and Sam's familiar laughter carrying down the lane. As they peered over the gate, Frodo turned and smiled, and waved in his dearest friends.  
  
The cottage seemed smaller than Merry and Pippin remembered. They had grown used to the grandeur and scale of Minas Tirith, hadn't seen something so, well, hobbit-like, in quite some time. It was of course no hobbit-hole, but rather a man-sized cottage, quite small for the type. It was a gift to the ringbearers from King Elessar, especially to Frodo, once he had tired of the very grandeur Merry and Pippin gloried in. It had been a little run down last they saw it nearly a month ago, but now signs of Sam's care were everywhere: in the garden, the edged walk and carefully trimmed hedge, as well as Frodo's clutter, always one step ahead of Sam. But more, there was a sense of it being lived in that hadn't been there before, a quality uniquely them. It didn't look at all like Bag End, but reminded Pippin of it somehow, though there was a scent of something subtly different, warmer, that he couldn't put a name to. It passed before Pippin had time to think of it, at the sound of the front door shutting behind Sam, scrambling awkwardly inside with his tea tray.  
  
"A little late for tea, isn't it?" Merry joked, and the four hobbits embraced in the front yard as Sam returned to join them, good-natured laughter and backslaps all around. Sam exclaimed, as he always did, at Pippin's lanky height, he just couldn't get used to it, his chin was at Pippin's collar as he pointed out again. Pippin was cheered to see Frodo in such remarkable health, a pink glow to his cheeks that hadn't been there in ages, although he did still look tired. The mountain air was clearly doing him good.  
  
Their companion's large head arched over the gate, munching on the hedge experimentally.  
  
"What's this - a horse??" Frodo exclaimed. Pippin nodded.  
  
"Merry's been learning to ride this monster. He's almost big enough. I'll take a pony myself any day." Merry stroked the enormous animal, which seemed tame enough. Sam, though he loved animals, was alarmed.  
  
"A pony can't keep up in Rohan." Merry pointed out practically, (Frodo smiled at the Rohan burr in Merry's voice), "if it be true Bullroarer Took could ride a ride a horse, well then, why can't I? But a few more ent draughts would help."  
  
Frodo laughed, "Enough, enough! Any more and we'll never find a hobbit hole to fit you! You'll be ducking doorjambs as it is."  
  
Merry lead his mare, for mare she was and small measured against the great steeds of Rohan, to pasture on the other side of the hedge, away from Sam's prized herb garden. Sam watched the beast suspiciously, certain she was big enough to break any tether and trample a season's hard work - or worse. But Merry appeared to know what he was doing as he expertly stripped off her tack and began rubbing her down, making soothing sounds. So reluctantly Sam abandoned his vigil, and went inside. He was greeted by the happy rustle of bags and bundles being hauled in and eagerly unpacked. While Frodo had asked in his letter for a few small items - they had no lack - they had expected nothing like this. The kitchen table and counters were bursting with brown wrappings, string, unknown packages and already opened ones. There were jars of preserves, pickles, baskets of early fruits of the season, and meat well cured, as well as other gifts. Delighted, Frodo waved him over.  
  
"Look what Merry and Pippin brought us!" he held up a large book with a twinkle, "Herbs, Sam. We'll soon know deadly ill you've brought us from that garden."  
  
He tackled another package, this one suspiciously round. It revealed a fine sharp wheel of cheese. "Oh my. I hope all this didn't cost too much, Pippin."  
  
"Not much at all." said Pippin, "As a matter of fact, as soon as people heard it was for you, well.. I could have brought a wain of carts stretching as far as you can see, all bearing gifts for the Ringbearers!"  
  
"Thank goodness you didn't!"  
  
Frodo palmed a bottle of herbed oil, quirking his mouth at Sam, "We'll definitely have a use for this."  
  
He patted Sam's shoulder amiably, though the joke went quite over Sam's head, busy as he was with the 'loot.' Sam sniffed the wheel of cheese experimentally. It was finely aged and very sharp, or he was no judge. It brought to mind a recipe, that with the summer greens, as he quickly changed plans for the evening meal. Several minutes later, while the other three were in the living room, Sam's head jerked up out of his cooking, as he got Frodo's meaning, belatedly.  
  
It was four very comfortably full hobbits that stretched out in the over- sized and over-stuffed chairs after dinner. Every candle was alight, casting a contented glow over the evening. Merry relaxed with his waistcoat undone, casually flipping the pages of Frodo's new book, "once it goes into that miasma you call a library, no one but you will ever find it again," he complained cheerfully. He shared the footstool with Frodo, who curled up in his favorite chair, pulling on his pipe. They sipped ale, nibbled on the remaining cheese, recovering for dessert. Pippin sprawled out on the rug, elbow dug into a plump pillow. His pipe had gone out, though he didn't appear to notice as he waved it about enthusiastically.  
  
"I can't believe you want to be away from Minas Tirith right now! Sure, it's cozy enough here, but the city is filling with people from all over. Elves, dwarves, people speaking all kinds of incomprehensible languages, decked out in every color. I've never seen anything like it!" Frodo chuckled at this 'man of the world,' since not a year before Pippin had never set foot outside the Shire. Pippin pillowed his head on his arms, staring dreamily at the ceiling.  
  
"Carts came pouring in from the mountains loaded with people just a few weeks ago, carrying banners and singing the anthem of Gondor or however it is called. Anyways it was a grand sight, everybody was at the walls, picking up the song and singing throughout the city. It echoed, Frodo, like the horn of Gondor. I tried to join in, though I couldn't rightly follow the words. I think it was in the language of old Numenor... Bere, my friend, he didn't know the words either.  
  
"That's where half of all this comes from by the way, seems only right you should get to enjoy it, too, since you're largely responsible." He rolled over, nearly tipping his plate as he turned a bright eye to his hosts.  
  
"Oh, Frodo, Sam, after that, the parties really started in earnest. If you thought Gondor was celebrating while you were there, well they had only begun. I think I've learned a hundred new dances. And the music! There must be no fewer than five new songs about you alone, Frodo."  
  
Frodo winced and laughed, "Well, there's one good reason to stay away."  
  
Merry and Sam joined in. Frodo's dislike of the ballads about himself was a joke amongst his friends.  
  
"They're not that bad."  
  
"On the contrary, my dear Pippin, they are not only bad: they're awful. And getting worse all the time. And not a grain of truth in them, either. Sneaking into Barad-dur, smiting the Dark Lord - indeed! Why, not even Elendil managed such a feat!  
  
"Besides," he added as an afterthought, "of the two of us, Sam is the more, well, heavily armed."  
  
Sam was so caught up in Pippin's story that it took a moment to catch Frodo's eyes dancing with mirth at him. He lowered his plate to his lap in embarrassment, realizing what Frodo meant.  
  
"I couldn't even go to market without being recognized," Frodo continued, a glint in his eye not boding well to Sam's mind, though it seemed he was to be spared, "you've no idea what it's like to smile and try to be polite through all that."  
  
"Oh," Pippin brushed this off, "they just don't understand about magic and rings and so forth. Anyways, crawling half-starved across the waste of Gorgoroth doesn't make for much of a story."  
  
"No. Not much fun I imagine." murmured Frodo, not liking the reminder anymore than he liked the songs. The memory sent a chill down Sam's spine and he instinctively edged closer to Frodo's chair. Bad poetry and exaggeration aside, there were many reasons Frodo disliked the ballads. What Sam knew or guessed of his reasons was hard to say.  
  
"So why not enjoy what you've earned? There are no songs of me!" Pippin said plaintively, "no one wants to sing about old Lord Denethor nearly cooking his son, for all I had a hand in saving him."  
  
"Pippin - !" startled Merry.  
  
"I said 'nearly cooked.' Bother, you're getting as bad as old Gandalf, Merry," he continued, "- and I do know what it's like, Frodo. To be you, that is. I get mistaken for you all the time. And I wouldn't mind. If it were true."  
  
"Then we're back to my original point: it isn't." Frodo said with finality. He would say no more on the subject. Sam rose and rescued Pippin's plate before he could roll over and break it, and began collecting the others.  
  
"But you're missing everything, and you're so far away. Parties nearly every night, Frodo! It would be so grand to have the four of us all together."  
  
"Well, my parties these days tend to be of a more private nature," Frodo answered with a small distant smile. Sam bobbled Merry's plate. He glanced over at Frodo, who was carefully not looking at Sam this time, but the little smile remained. Sam shook his head to clear it and fled to the kitchen. He returned several minutes later wiping his hands, determined to not encourage Frodo in his teasing, and walked in to a heated discussion between Merry and Pippin.  
  
"Look, Pippin, it was your fault - "  
  
"- Ha - !"  
  
"Now, now, there, it takes two to tangle," Frodo interrupted with a grin, glimpsing Sam's return out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Sam firmly ignored the hint.  
  
"Well, whatever it is, it's very likely Master Pippin's fault," he commented.  
  
That brought down the house and even Pippin slapped Sam on the back. Sam blushed with pleasure.  
  
"Oy, Sam, you're not nearly as shy as you used to be!" laughed Pippin.  
  
"Sam's quite cheeky in fact," Frodo said, winking at Sam, "But I like that about him. There's more to him than most hobbits." Sam blinked, forgetting his resolve. He was not quite sure he took that as a compliment. He wasn't that big.  
  
"You two," Merry observed, looking back and forth between Frodo and Sam, "you seem so much closer now, even more than just a month ago; though I would hardly have thought it possible."  
  
Sam froze.  
  
"Yes, we've seen a great deal more of each other lately," Frodo answered easily, tongue firmly in cheek. Sam choked, his answer tangled and lost somewhere between his voice and his mind. Fortunately the conversation wandered to Merry's latest enthusiasm, his horse; he and Frodo talked animatedly about riding the next day.  
  
"She's well-behaved, but quite a handful!" Merry gushed.  
  
Pippin piped up, interrupting Frodo, "Oh yes! And maybe we can discover a shorter route to Minas Tirith while we're about it, climbing over that mountain. We have to go such the long way around. But don't you dare do too much, Frodo! If you don't mind my saying so - you look tired."  
  
"Well, the only climbing I've done lately is on that bed - and that has been quite adventure enough!" Sam jaw fell. "I'd say I've quite worn myself out. Though Sam here, he can go all night, and still have breakfast ready in the morning." Frodo looked like he was about to laugh out loud. "I'm really quite impressed," he added.  
  
Sam stood up. That wasn't near the truth, nor was it even part of the truth: it was damned near all of it. He realized suddenly then that Merry and Pippin were staring up at him quizzically, and he flushed, and mumbled something about dishes and washing up. Frodo's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter as he gently patted Sam's arm and pulled him back down beside him.  
  
"It's alright, Sam. It's fine. I am sorry - " Frodo said, quickly recovering, adding for Merry and Pippin's benefit, "- for not helping you with the dishes earlier. If you'll stay, I will help you in the morning. I really want you to be here, Sam. Please. We have so much to talk about." Something in the way Frodo said it made Sam sit down uncertainly. Merry and Pippin looked puzzled at the interchange, but seemed to decide to ignore it as their personal business.  
  
"So. how have things been around here?" Merry asked with polite disinterest, clearly thinking he knew the answer.  
  
"Exciting." Frodo laughed, then squeezed his eyes shut with a wince. He set an apologetic hand on Sam's shoulder, as Sam closed his mouth.  
  
"I'll bet!" Pippin rolled his eyes. "Watching the grass grow."  
  
"Yes." Frodo went on, "things have been growing quite out of control. Maybe too much so, Sam, do you think?" His eyes looked clear through Sam, who could hardly gather his wits to answer.  
  
"Oh... I... I don't think so..." he mumbled.  
  
Merry nodded, "Sam will take care of everything."  
  
"Yes. So he does." Frodo said softly, examining Sam under lowered lids and taking another long pull at his pipe. His hand still rested on Sam's shoulder, firm and distracting. Sam blushed furiously.  
  
"No need to be embarrassed, Sam!" Pippin clapped him on the back, "everyone knows you're the best gardener in all of Hobbitton, if your Dad would admit that you've bested him, that is." Frodo tapped out the ashes of his pipe casually, finally removing his hand. The spot where it had been was warm with the memory of his touch.  
  
"He's fantastic. I mean that. Although I admit, I haven't had much experience with others. I do have some bias towards Sam. We all know how I feel about him."  
  
"I somehow doubt that," muttered Sam under his breath and he shot Frodo a warning look, which fortunately Pippin missed.  
  
"Yes, Sam's a prince!" Pippin beamed.  
  
Merry didn't miss it however. "I'm sorry. Sam, did you say something?"  
  
The room grew suddenly very hot and Sam stood up.  
  
"Yes, sir, dessert? Mr. Merry, Master Pippin?" He wanted to escape, quickly.  
  
Frodo stopped Sam on his way to the kitchen, catching and holding his eyes.  
  
"I'll have whatever you'll have, Sam. But no more than you wish." Frodo's face was earnest and sincere.  
  
"My, my, we take our dessert seriously in this house!" Merry said mockingly.  
  
"Some things are more serious than others." Frodo leaned back, his eyes distant and cryptic as he relit his pipe.  
  
"Especially dessert!" Pippin piped up, and happily volunteered to help Sam with Pippin's favorite meal.  
  
Sam's heart fluttered and his knees were weak as he retreated to the kitchen. Pippin's help was the last thing Sam needed. He wanted time to think, to catch his breath. He was getting dizzy with two things going on at once, with what Mr. Frodo was saying, and what Mr. Merry was saying, and what Mr. Frodo had said, and what he meant, and what Mr. Merry thought. He needed a moment to sort it all out. He couldn't think on the fly like this. Pippin hovered unhelpfully underfoot in a kitchen that felt small and crowded already. Sam loaded a tray with pies and apple tarts and stuffed it into Pippin's arms to get rid of him, sending him along with a far too familiar pat on the bottom, like he was a hobbit child. Or Mr. Frodo. Sam realized what he'd done, too late; he was getting mixed up. Pippin yipped and blinked, but then paid it no mind as he pranced into the living room to cheers and clapping for the ever-popular dessert course. Sam whipped some cream for the pies with a sprinkle of sugar, thinking furiously how to answer Mr. Frodo; how to be plain, and not plain, so to speak.  
  
Pippin's voice sang out from the living room, "Hullo Sam! Don't be too long or we shan't wait for you!"  
  
Sam thought he had his answer, or at least it was his best effort and would have to do. He was no match for Mr. Frodo, or Mr. Merry for that matter, in a game of wits and knew it. He gathered the last pie and the whipped cream and bit his lip as he went to his doom. Or so he felt.  
  
He slid a piece of pie onto a plate and handed it to Mr. Frodo. First. Right on schedule, Frodo responded perfectly to the set up. If there was one thing Sam knew, it was his master.  
  
"Shouldn't you serve our guests first?" Frodo reminded Sam mildly, with idle amusement.  
  
"You... you come first," Sam stammered, his voice breaking, ".you always have."  
  
Lips slightly parted around the pipe was all that betrayed Frodo as he sat, poleaxed, and made no answer. The room went white hot, for both of them. The candles fluttered. Perhaps Sam had spoken too plainly? Sam felt trapped and uncertain, and Merry shot a confused look between Frodo and Sam, like he suddenly felt he was missing the punch line of a joke. Or three.  
  
Pippin scoffed around a forkful of pie, "Sam, if I didn't know better I'd say you'd been at Frodo's brandy. You're always such a mush-pot at the bottom of a cup of ale." Frodo recovered first.  
  
"Oh. Well," he said breathlessly, "in that case, I accept." He spoke softly looking down at his plate. He gave Sam an unreadable look and changed the subject. "Tell us about being in the guard, Pippin. We've seen you in all your finery, but I for one have no idea what you do!"  
  
Sam sank to a chair, pie forgotten in his hands, grateful for his master's skillful distraction. He had spoken his mind a bit too plainly, it was clear. He berated himself roundly, using every name his father had for him and a few others, "Sam Gamgee," he thought, "don't try to be clever. Only a fool tries what he don't know how. And you're a fool, Gamgee, and twice over at that!" He watched Frodo, who for all appearances was absorbed in Pippin's eager story. But to Sam's sharp observation Frodo's eyes were a trifle unfocused, and his breathing heavy. He was carefully not looking at Sam. This was not the reaction Sam had wanted, though it was hard to say what he did expect. Perhaps he didn't know his master as well as he thought. Sam yearned to know his master's mind. But there was no chance Sam was going to make a second attempt.  
  
Sam was having trouble following Pippin's tale himself, only catching it in snatches, his feelings churning as they were. Only half-aware of what was being said, images of a clarion wake-up call at first light caught at his mind; young Pippin at an end of a long line of soldiers, at attention, bearing row upon row of gleaming steel, glinting in the cool dawn; his arm crossed across his chest in the salute of Gondor. This tangled with Sam's throbbing heartbeat, watching Frodo, and he forgot all else for a space. His attention returned to the talk, which had wandered to a lunch hall, wooden trestles crowded with familiar faces who hailed Pippin on sight, as Pip attempted to tear himself away to his duties. They laughed, saying when does duty come before food with you? Pippin cursing his ill luck for having drawn the lunch shift, as someone tosses him a buttered roll, to 'fend off starvation', as Pippin leaves them to their merriment at his expense. Throughout this, Sam made hopeless furtive attempts to catch Frodo's eye. He didn't seem angry, but Sam couldn't understand his looking away. Frodo ate his pie slowly, as if he'd forgotten he was doing so, his face silhouetted and warmed by candlelight. Sam forgot not to stare. The soft gold on his master's face reflected and blended hazily with Pippin's next words; an image of afternoon sun beating down on a small Pip sparring in the dusty salle, training with the younger lads, sweat sticking his tunic to his back.. "The heraldry has to be black! In the summer, in this sun!" Pippin's voice broke in. That caught Sam's attention.  
  
"Really, Master Pippin?" he asked, amazed, "You know how to use that steel of yours then?"  
  
"No, not yet!" Pippin laughed, "the lads best me all the time. They have years more experience than I. But no real battles, so I'm one up on them there. And I'm catching up.  
  
"-- but here now, let's continue this tomorrow. I don't think either of you have heard a word I've said!" Pippin accused, "You and Frodo, you're both falling asleep!"  
  
Sam realized that they were. Well, they had been up late the night before. All night in fact. Had it really only happened just last night, Sam wondered. It seemed so much had changed in such a short time. Frodo stood, brushing the crumbs off his lap and setting his plate to the side.  
  
"Yes, it's late. And as you didn't have the first piece of pie, you two can have the larger bed tonight. I'll share with Sam."  
  
Usually Merry as the eldest shared with Frodo, and Sam, wiping his mouth, watched Merry carefully, feeling a rush of both relief and fear. Something tender had been revealed, too new and fragile to be touched by their friends' inevitable shock; and their equally inevitable merciless teasing that would surely follow. But Merry accepted the gracious offer without comment or apparent concern.  
  
Sam huffed a sigh, exhausted. He was grateful they were leaving the washing up for the morrow, though he felt a tad guilty too; it would be an awful mess, and his mother had never allowed the washing to go undone. "What's bad is always worse if you wait." But he was glad Frodo was helping. For one thing, given Pippin's aversion to cleaning, he stood a good chance of having a quiet moment alone with Frodo to talk. He watched Pippin dig through the baggage for their pajamas, resting his mind. A sudden thought, a bolt out of the blue, occurred to Sam - about cleaning. He made a beeline for the bedroom and began stripping the sheets off Frodo's bed with alacrity.  
  
"Sam, that is very thoughtful, but really, you don't have to." Merry moved to forestall him.  
  
"It is quite late, Sam. I suppose we should have thought of it sooner," Frodo agreed.  
  
Sam tossed Frodo his pillowcase, which had seen much use the night before, giving him an emphatic meaningful look. Frodo caught the scent immediately, his eyes widening at Sam. "I'll fetch the linens." he said, turning abruptly.  
  
As they made the bed together, once Merry's back turned, Frodo made a wordless helpless gesture of disbelief to Sam, rolling his eyes at their utter carelessness. Sam bobbed and nodded, and put his head in his hands in mock horror. Frodo's eyes danced and Sam grinned at him. After they tucked the last corner under the oak headboard, Frodo murmured under his breath "Well done, Sam." And he stood there for a moment, his palm to his temples.  
  
The sheets felt so cool and light that Sam pulled out fresh sheets for his own bed, especially since Frodo was going to be sharing them with him tonight. Sam felt warm and happy. He hadn't done too terribly after all.  
  
The four of them began to undress. It felt a little awkward and odd to Sam, though they had done this hundreds of times before. His mind would not stop telling him Merry and Pippin could see right through him and knew exactly what had happened in the last day or so, no matter how he argued with it. And Frodo he saw in a new light, the curve of his back and his refined manner seemed achingly sweet to him now. He was careful not to stare, or glance too often. Surely he'd have other chances. Even Merry and Pippin looked different. Frodo had assumed an enviable mask of calm. Sam knew now it was a mask, and suspected that underneath it all Frodo was as nervous as he. If such were possible.  
  
Pippin clambered into bed as Merry returned from a quick trip to the washbasin, toweling off his face, settling onto his side of the bed. Frodo and Sam stood at the foot of their bed, staring at each other, and the bed, in blinking amazement. Now that it had come to it, they were reluctant to get in. This would be the first time they would have done so deliberately, knowing each other as they did now. Perhaps without visitors they would have slept in Frodo's bed tonight. Perhaps Sam would have returned to his own. But as it was they had no choice.  
  
Frodo waited for Sam politely, then finally nodded to Sam, explaining, "It's your bed."  
  
"I sleep on the outside edge," said Sam.  
  
"Oh. So do I." Frodo blinked.  
  
This seemed suddenly strange and funny to both of them, summing up their entire dilemma somehow. Sam gave up and dove in first, cringing at the squeak and feeling a bit squashed against the wall, as Frodo struggled in under the blankets beside him. Sam was minded suddenly of a boat, with the bed and covers moving about him unexpectedly. It was not a comfortable feeling.  
  
Pippin blew out the last candle on Frodo's little table, bouncing and tossing all the covers to his cousin, who threw them back. "It's too hot in here." Frodo reached to open the window, catching Sam with an elbow and apologizing, as he opened it a little wider. Sam rubbed his ear, hushing Frodo's anxious apologies. The night before this had been so easy, if not precisely graceful.  
  
In the dark, Merry and Pippin's breathing gradually deepened and slowed to the rate of the soft cooling air that wafted in off the mountains. Pippin coughed and turned with a little sigh, fresh sheets rustling.  
  
Frodo's face was a brush of silk on Sam's shoulder, breath soft and warm in Sam's hair. Sam felt Frodo hesitantly slip a hand up under his pajama top and ease across Sam's chest, though he ventured no more. Sam was grateful, exhausted, though he blinked nervously at the unfamiliar touch and then drank in the new sensation of the cool hand on his chest. He was drifting off when he felt as much as heard the whisper on the back of his neck.  
  
"Sam... are you still awake?"  
  
Sam nodded, wondering sleepily what Frodo was up to, his mind going to the squeak in the bed. A kiss pressed into his hair.  
  
"What you said earlier.." Sam listened into the pause.  
  
"I know. Sam." Frodo said simply. 


	5. In the Eye of the Storm

**** In the Eye of a Storm ****  
  
The sheets were kicked to the bottom of the bed. They had lit a few candles, now burned low, just enough to spill some light in their room without adding too much to the summer heat. Frodo's hair was a dark puddle surrounding fair skin which had a sheen in any light, and was softer than silk, in Sam's opinion. Sam wondered what it would be like to do this outside, hoping vainly for another breeze from the open windows. Frodo was always a bit cooler than he, a balm on these muggy Gondor nights. He heaved himself off of Frodo with a huff, and flopped onto the pillows.   
  
"Try it." Frodo urged, raising up on an elbow.   
  
Sam shrugged, glancing up at him bashfully, and poured a little more oil in his hands. Frodo had been right, they had found many uses for it. This bottle of rosemary oil was going the way of the first. The scent of rosemary was going to put him in a mood forever after, Sam was certain.   
  
His hands slid down Frodo's back to his cheeks and eased them apart. Other treasures were revealed in this view, a little lower between his legs, and Sam couldn't resist nuzzling them, taking them in his mouth soft, round; he loved the way they moved, escaping his tongue. He nibbled and then tickled the pearly thighs with his hair.   
  
He wasn't disappointed - for all of Frodo's dignity and self-control outside the bedroom, he had none at all here, not when Sam did this. Especially caught off guard, one reason Sam loved to surprise him every chance he got. There was something delightful about, well, getting inside Frodo's reserve and watching it all come apart.   
  
Frodo giggled and writhed with abandon, and Sam grinned down at him impishly. They laughed and slid apart, and Sam sat up to meet his master's admonishing look. Frodo's slender chest heaved with gasps and suppressed laughter.  
  
"Hey now, that tickles! Sam, stop fooling around." He was also quite hard Sam noted, pleased. He felt well rewarded and relented.   
  
"Okay, okay, Mr. Frodo.... here goes. But I make no promises, mind."  
  
Frodo rolled back onto his stomach, watching Sam with amused suspicion. Sam scanned his nude form, approaching Frodo's idea as a technical problem, and he could see one issue already.  
  
"You need to be a bit higher there," he commented as he thrust and nestled a pillow under Frodo's hips. Under such clinical examination Frodo griped.  
  
"I feel like a piece of meat at the market."   
  
"You are at that," Sam beamed, making motions diagramming the different parts on his body, "and a fine one. Here, see, this is a shoulder roast.. beef round.. and here we have a nice rump roast, bottom round, good and firm," Frodo laughed. "You're a bit pale for beef though, veal maybe.."   
  
"Hm. Rosemary and now beef. Or veal. I suppose it's a lucky thing for me you're not hungry!" He looked up at him with an amused eye. Sam chuckled.   
  
"Oh, I'm always hungry," and he mock-bit, nibbled and gnawed at his 'rump roast,' Frodo squirming deliciously under him. He could feel the laughter rumbling under his teeth. Frodo rolled over again, and regarded Sam with both eyes this time.  
  
"Sam, if you don't want to do this..." Frodo's sudden intake of breath cut short the rest. Sam had answered, with a warm hand between his cheeks, teasing the little button there. It was small and delicate, and as tight as a rosebud, all closed up, Sam thought; there was no chance this was going to work.   
  
Then Sam's eyebrows raised as Frodo melted under his hand, pliable and suddenly yielding, his eyes slowly shutting with a breath. Frodo's chest expanded as he lifted into Sam's hand, as responsive and graceful as a cat. Granted, no one had ever done this to Sam, so he hadn't known what to expect. He continued to tease, eagerly taking this in, blinking, and toying skillfully with the hair delicately, before returning. The button felt a little softer now, smoother.   
  
Sam's face heated at Frodo's sensual response to his touch, feeling somewhat amazed as he often did, that his own coarse handling could cause this. His own reaction pressed up against Frodo's thigh. Frodo regarded him briefly under heavy-lidded eyes, then shifted to apply a little pressure there. Sam pressed into this gratefully. Nothing like a little understanding.  
  
With that, Sam's lips parted in an 'o' as he felt the little bud open under his fingers. Maybe this was not such a bad idea after all. He probed, curious to see if it was open far enough, wondering as he did so how this felt. Frodo grew very still as he explored, breath coming quick and light. It was not nearly enough, but things began to look more promising.   
  
The catch in Frodo's breath and a tightening warned him to go a bit slower, and Sam wanted more oil as he experimentally and gently moved in and out. For all the times Sam had accused himself of being slow-witted or a ninny, he caught the trick of this right off; he reached around the pillow and grasped his master with practiced hands. Frodo arched, pressed against him, hungering - oh yes, Mr. Frodo, you want something much larger now, don't you? Sam purred to himself; even half Sam's hand couldn't go deep enough.   
  
Sam handed Frodo the oil, closing his eyes as his master's cool then hot hand slid down. A little whimper of complaint from his master brought him back to middle earth, and he began to knead again, if distractedly.   
  
With a little more oil trickling hot between the curve of those cheeks, Sam found his distraction had cooled things off somewhat; Frodo had tightened up. That wouldn't do at all.   
  
But Frodo had his own ideas. A warm arm dragged Sam down, startling a helpless yelp as Frodo's lips caught his and his surprisingly strong hand seized Sam firmly, pulling and dragging a low moan out from between his teeth. Parting with a breath Frodo gazed down at him, eyes dark and hazed with desire.   
  
Sam rolled Frodo back onto the pillow, feeling uncommonly rough and intense, deciding to reward him with something else altogether. This would be a real surprise.   
  
With a naughty smile, Sam tickled over the uncooperative pink button with his tongue, opening it now more easily, circling and dancing. Frodo's breath came in quick gasps, which turned to pleading moans. Frodo was completely his now, helpless.   
  
Sam drew himself up, hips sliding nicely between Frodo's thighs as he pressed himself against Frodo, his hands running along silky cool hips. Frodo didn't yield to him, not yet, though he pressed back against Sam, his breaths heavy and low. Sam wanted this so, his hands trembled with frustration, and he could feel Frodo's tension and growing urgency and impatience beneath him.   
  
Sam nibbled and roughly kissed the back of Frodo's neck, just where he liked, murmuring hoarse unintelligible nothings into his hair, hands seeking... over his back, shoulders, down ticklish sides - that was a mistake - then finding the delicate nipple, encircling it.   
  
That worked. Frodo moaned, writhed, hand clutching as he bit and clawed the pillow, and he lifted, the tension easing with a breath.   
  
Sam's blood surged and sang in his ears as he edged past the rim, the delicate tension that had barred him sent a shiver through Frodo, a ripple Sam felt to his core. Sam pushed slowly, gently, carefully, and then faster, held almost unbearably tight. A heat bloomed in him to his belly, and built, as Sam forgot himself, glorying. He heard Frodo's clear voice call his name in a gasp, and he lost himself inside him then and there, a sound on his lips he didn't recognize.  
  
Sam shuddered, spent, collapsed onto Frodo's back, who still heaved with heavy breaths. Together they collected their wits, dazed, wrapped around each other in what they had shared.  
  
"Well now, that.." he breathed finally into Frodo's hair, "that... didn't last very long." Sam felt Frodo's burst of laughter as he withdrew.   
  
Frodo turned a brilliant and rather fierce smile on him, his answer wordless, passionate, as he drew Sam on top, nuzzling his flushed and embarrassed face. He kissed Sam's lips, his eyelids, and kissed the sweat off Sam's chest, breathing in his scent deeply, a heat still in his eyes, intense and happy. Sam beamed with pride at his accomplishment.   
  
"Oh Sam, next time, I want to see you! I want to see what you look like when you do that!" Frodo's voice was hoarse, low as a purr. He kissed the top of Sam's head and tousled his hair, then comfortably settled Sam's hips atop his own.  
  
"Today? Now?" Sam squeaked, "Mr. Frodo, I really don't think I can manage it, leastaways not right off."  
  
"No, no - !" Frodo's laugh was music to Sam's ears, "but I will have to do something!" He indicated his own state. Sam's eyes burned into Frodo's as he moved his lips a little lower.   
  
"Your Sam can take care of that."  
  
Frodo threw his arm over his eyes in disbelief, "Sam, you are tireless! I don't deserve this! Or you."  
  
Sam grew suddenly serious and he leaned over Frodo, fists denting the pillow to either side.  
  
"I don't ever want to hear you say that. Not again. Nor ever." he said huskily, " 'cause it ain't so!" And he kissed Frodo with the passionate fury of trying to convince him. The kiss swiftly became something else.  
  
**********  
  
Sam's garden was awash in a sunlight that filtered through high clouds, bright but indistinct, casting few shadows. Not a breath stirred. The air felt heavy, listless, like a storm was due, and about time Sam thought. The garden, well-loved and tended, was in a lull. No rain had meant no weeding to do, it was too early to harvest anything but the spicy nasturtiums, and it was too late to do any planting.   
  
Sam wandered over to lean on the back of Frodo's chair, peering over his shoulder to see if this book was in letters he could read. Well, more or less read. It never ceased to impress him, all the different languages and scripts Frodo knew - elvish even! - though Frodo insisted he was hardly fluent, certainly not like Bilbo. Hovering about Bilbo like this had learned Sam his letters when he was young, and Frodo knew all kinds of interesting things. There were two elvish scripts for one thing, he'd learned that yesterday, though what they would need with more than one Sam couldn't imagine. Perhaps they had a lot to say.   
  
Frodo didn't seem to paying much attention to his book, staring off into the distance, so Sam didn't really feel he was interrupting with his question. It had been on his mind all day. And half the night, for that matter.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, last night," he said curiously, "What did that feel like? If you don't mind my asking."  
  
"Why should I mind?" Frodo shut the book and put aside his reading glasses, looking up at Sam with clear eyes.   
  
Frodo was silent a moment, thinking. "It felt like you."   
  
Sam waited for him to continue, just like he would have with Bilbo, listening patiently, careful not to ask too many questions.  
  
" 'There's earth under his feet, and clay under his fingers, wisdom, and both his eyes are open..' " Frodo quoted, "Tom Bombadil said that, about Farmer Maggot, but he could say it about you." Sam stared, but Frodo seemed quite serious.  
  
"Eh, you've got the wrong hobbit. I'm just Sam Gamgee, a gardener." Frodo smiled at him warmly, and said nothing.   
  
Frodo chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment Sam noted with affection, in that familiar way he had when he was uncertain of something. Finally he continued.   
  
"Sam.. I somehow feel that, whatever may pass, I at least get to keep some part of you." Frodo blushed, "I don't really mean from well, what we've been about. I never imagined.. nor ever dreamed.... anyways, I think it was meant to be. I'll accept every gift sent my way."  
  
He smirked, "In fact, right at this moment I'm even grateful for those awful ballads about me and the ring!"  
  
Sam chortled. "That won't last, not once you have to listen to 'em."  
  
"No, I imagine not!" Frodo laughed, then he grew serious again.   
  
"But I feel here and now, in this place, I am in the eye of a storm. The sun is shining and bright, the sky is blue; everything is perfect and at peace. And I want to stay here, Sam, as long as I possibly can. Because once I move, even an inch, everything will change." Sam stroked Frodo's hair idly.  
  
"Everything changes, Mr. Frodo," he said looking past the mountains, "Even here."  
  
Sam watched a line of dark blue gathering to the northwest, on the far side of snowy Mt. Mindolluin. His weather sense had been right. It seemed indeed a storm was brewing, though Sam, and his garden, welcomed the rain.  
  
"But that rumbling don't mean no storm - or not necessarily. More like it's suppertime. And you're helping! Your Sam insists. Else you'll brood yourself into a tizzy, lovely day or no." Privately, Sam thought Frodo was the wisest hobbit he'd ever known, and likely right. But there was no use thinking of it now. He suddenly hefted a startled and protesting Frodo Baggins out of his chair, and swung him across his shoulders like a hobbit child. Frodo laughed, long and deeply, kicking his feet and clinging helplessly to Sam's back as Sam staggered, laughing under Frodo's weight, into the cottage.   
  
The door gently shut as the first fat raindrops began to fall. 


End file.
